


Foot Inside the Door

by rxcrcfllptrs



Category: Team Crafted
Genre: Alternate Universe, Inaccurate Portrayal of Mental Illness, M/M, Schizophrenia, Suicidal Thoughts, selfcest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-27
Updated: 2013-11-27
Packaged: 2018-01-02 20:12:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,072
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1061116
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rxcrcfllptrs/pseuds/rxcrcfllptrs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Seto isn't insane. He isn't. He isn't. He isn't. (He is, but he doesn't have to walk that road alone.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Foot Inside the Door

**Author's Note:**

> For anonymous on tumblr. Inspired by RadioDriveBy's "What You Need".

Everyday, he wakes up to the same white walls and tattered carpet and meagre possessions. That is, if he even gets the sleep he needs. There’s always just so much running through his head, it bleeds into his life, into his quick and stuttering movements, the slight limp he carries himself around in, the bloodshot eyes that could strike fear in any unsuspecting intern’s heart. He doesn’t mean it. He doesn’t want to think that he does.

_He isn’t insane. He isn’t. He isn’t. He isn’t._

_But you are_ , the walls whisper to him.  _You are_ , the window always to his left says.  _You will not leave,_ the threadbare carpet says.  _Not until you’re better_ , the light above him blinks in and out every night. Flicker and flicker and flicker and flicker. They all make so much noise in his head, _he wants it to stop._

Sometimes, he can hear the people from the other side. Above the blood rushing through his ears, soaring ardently over the depths of his heart beat, the systematic clenching of his fingers on the sheets. Clench, unclench, clench, unclench. Breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out.

He thinks in these patterns, sometimes. They told him it helps. It doesn’t.

Everyday he wakes up to the same old, same old. The patterns and the grumbling and angry murmurs of the room, the voices in his head that sometimes escalate and sometimes wade peacefully (sometimes that is now rarely). The clearest thought he had in this vicious cycle was “if I’m such a hopeless case, then why am I not dead yet?”.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen a mirror, but Seto is sure that this teenager in his room is familiar. Somehow.

For the first few days, he doesn’t say anything to him. He observes and clenches and breathes and blinks. He avoids the anger of the voices in his head, he is quiet and it must be worrying the people on the other side. They make him drink more medicine, bitter pills of white and blue and red, colours that may mean something that could kill him, and he honestly might not even mind that.

The first contact is a week after, and he doesn’t initiate. Hell, he doesn’t even reciprocate. “Hello,” the stranger says, sitting lightly beside him on his bed. “Nice to meet you,” he says. When Seto first looks up to really look at him - as a person and no longer as a fixture in the room - he’s granted a moment of clarity when the other smiles.

After that, it all crashed down on him.

He was more erratic, more restless, the voices were stronger and louder, even his screams couldn’t combat their sheer number. He’d wake up with the sun’s dulled rays filtering into his room, no recollection of what happened before the blackout.

It happens more often, but the stranger is always there.

Sometimes it was a feather-light touch, when he tips Seto’s head onto his shoulder, or lets his head rest on his lap, letting nimble fingers tousle his hair. Words of a language he can’t understand tumble from his lips, a language that he’s sure he could understand, if he could only stay awake long enough to do so.

There are other times when it’s more intimate. Chaste, but intimate all the same. After another attack and he honestly just  _can’t take it anymore_ , he’d press up against the wall and put his head in his hands. The sheets are always changed and cleaned weekly, but the ghosts of salty tears that have spilt from his eyes are always there. These are the times when the stranger would put two fingers on his chin, raise his head up.

He must always look horrible to him, with his tears and bloodshot eyes and his insanity, but he kisses him, slow and sweet every time. It makes him feel like he is normal. _  
_

Sometimes, he can feel the warm summer sun beating down on him when he’s kissed. He can hear the crystal clear water flowing down a creek, blades of grass tickling the palms of his hands. They’d kiss until they couldn’t, and Seto’s looking into dilated eyes of someone he could have known, and he knows now. Kissing the stranger makes him feel like he is loved.

He never asks for the name, because they’ll leave, they will, eventually. (He hopes they never do, because he isn’t sure how he’d live without them. He misses them when they’re gone.)

Months pass like water as it crashes on the shore and draws back into the ocean, continuous and sometimes quick, other times slow. The people on the other side are telling him that he’s getting better. His outbursts aren’t as intense, nor do they occur as often. All he knows is that his stranger isn’t always there anymore.

They let him out of his room a few more times than he used to, now. Sometimes he thinks he catches glances of the stranger in the bustle of the ward, but other times it’s just the trick of the light.

That’s what his friend, Jason, tells him. Maybe he’s right. 

The days and nights grow longer, he experiences it more fully. He can sometimes see the moon at night, and he can hear children playing in the playground outside. He still misses the kisses and the hugs and the comfort his stranger brings.

The day he’s finally discharged from the ward is the best and worst day of his life. His bag is packed and he’s ready to say goodbye to everything - almost everything.

It’s been a long time since he’s seen his stranger, and he’s beaming when Seto sees him leaning on the doorway. “Hello, stranger,” he greets with a slight nod of the head.

"I’ll miss you," the stranger chuckles. "You’ve come a long way, you know," he says. Seto can only nod, catching the implication that he can’t leave, not yet, like how he was. "You don’t need me anymore."

He leaves him with a kiss on his cheeks, and dissipates with a wind Seto couldn’t feel. It feels like his heart being ripped out of his chest, and assuming he’ll still live.

And he will live. He’ll breathe and blink and clench and unclench and observe and think and- he’ll make the stranger proud. And then someday, maybe, just maybe he’ll need him again.


End file.
